


Whole

by misslonelyhearts



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Magic, Red Lyrium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 15:36:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1610288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslonelyhearts/pseuds/misslonelyhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a kmeme fill i posted anonymously for some reason.  anyway, anon asked simply for cullen/m!inquisitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whole

The attack they plan on the Red Keep is his design.  He can claim the strategy, the weaponry, even the reinforcements.  From the flanks to the final push it’s all his.  But ownership is fleeting for Cullen.  Under the Inquisition, under its omnipresent flag and its spreading weight, all things fall to the man with the glowing hand.  Including Cullen.  
  
“Don’t come,” the Inquisitor says, voice hollow where concern or command might fill the same role.  As if this choice, too, were another of Cullen’s temporary possessions.  But he’s buckled and battle-braced before dawn, striding between the bedchamber door columns, out to the courtyard among his ranks, before Cullen even gets his breeches on.  
  
He tires of waiting.  But waiting makes it sweeter, makes him harder.  
  
To the red rug stretching beneath his feet, Cullen says, “Come back whole.”    
  
He dresses, images of the battle he hasn’t been invited to flash in his mind like Fade fire.  He eats, fields a dozen questions from subordinates, and takes reports from other front lines.  Casualties line up before him as neatly as Ferelden crops.  Outside, clouds overcrowd the mountain, and Skyhold’s approach remains empty of returning soldiers.    
  
To the window dusted with ice, Cullen says “Maker, just let him come back whole.”  
  
And he does.   
  
He comes back with a red gleam of triumph, red intention still dripping from his teeth.  Again, it’s magic making Cullen wince, the absence of it stoking his need.  The chamber door swings shut with an echoing bang.  The red iron staff hits the rug.  
  
They argue without sound, too many glowing reminders between them. In the handsy grapple of green light disappearing down the front of Cullen’s breeches, with the caustic snap of red lyrium hollering off the Inquisitor’s very skin, they make good on the waiting that only one of them seems to suffer.  
  
“It was everywhere, the stuff drove me mad.” The Inquisitor’s voice is mana-bathed stone ground to gravel. His hand cups, squeezes. His lips reach Cullen’s cheek, a perfect menace. “You’d have loved it.”   
  
Thick arms multiply around Cullen, pushing.  He raises up taller and broader, infinitely less sure even as he pushes back.   
  
“Don’t.  Don’t say that, please,” he says. It’s an imperfect advance, but it gets him close enough to feel an answering stiffness, to rub.  “I should h-have been there. Take me next tim-”  
  
The Inquisitor kisses the plea away, scrapes Cullen’s lips with beard scruff and bravery.  
  
‘Next time’ is always an unuttered promise.  But Cullen is taken anyway. In every way.  First, with a viciously quick hand jerking them together, dry and punishing, their clothes only open where necessary.  The Inquisitor handles their sliding cocks like a man possessed, undone by the grotty grinding of skin.  Cullen, his back aching, jammed against the desk, pulls at the Inquisitor’s head roughly.  His pupils are blown, darkness sparked with bottomless infatuation.  
  
Cullen licks the feverish salt from the Inquisitor’s jaw says, “I want to finish in your mouth,” and he does. It’s a brief hush while he comes, gripping the edge of the desk in a borrowed room, every stitch of him also borrowed, belonging to the lips around his cock and the knees splayed wide, still in their armor.   
  
“Get on the bed,” says the Inquisitor, sitting back on his heels.  From everywhere, anywhere, even the floor, it’s his will.  Cullen’s jaw flexes.  “You want to know what you missed? Strip.”  
  
Cullen obeys.  He commands an army, and yet craves the warm certainty of obedience. But he doesn’t move fast enough.  There’s clattering piles of armor, and softly thumping leather on the floor, but none of it is quick enough to satisfy.  Being watched while he moves, the boldness of it erodes Cullen from a man down to a sharp, engulfing throb.  The Inquisitor bares his desperation, strokes himself, and nearly whines as he wrestles Cullen onto the bed.   
  
Eels couldn’t hope to writhe like this.  Animals don’t spread themselves like Cullen does, don’t hook their legs around narrow hips and urge like he does.  Spirits don’t fuck, and demons can only slaver to know. As a tool, a possession, even as a partner, Cullen has never lacked for his own brutal desires. Their intrinsic nature haunt him less and less every day, with every panting breath wetting his neck. With how he’s owned.  
  
“You went mad? Truly?” he asks in the first thrust.  He touches the Inquisitor’s face, claws at his arms, pinned down and slowly filled.  “But you seem. . .whole.”  
  
“Not just whole,” begins the Inquisitor.  He lifts Cullen’s hips, settling so deeply that Cullen gasps, bowing off the bed.  Teeth glittering, he plants his hands at either side of Cullen’s huffing chest and drawls, “ _More._ ”


End file.
